All I Want for Christmas
by owlcroft
Summary: This is, I believe, my 11th Christmas story. Most of them have been written as gifts to our fandom and this is no exception. Your friendship and dedication are much appreciated - thank you!


A/N:: For this story, by request, I drew on the "Lord Mark" trilogy. Most of you have probably read the Blackthorne series, but if you haven't, it isn't necessary. Also, one of our stalwart members suggested a race car driver. You might just find more than one in here.

All I Want for Christmas

by Owlcroft

"I dunno about this, Judge." McCormick tossed the small folded paper onto the kitchen table and leaned back in his chair. "It all sounds too . . . fancy."

"I toldja," muttered the judge, stirring a pot of soup cautiously, "you need to go to stuff like this. Get to know people, let them know you, meet and greet – it'll be a big help once you're in practice."

Mark shook his head slowly. "Not the kind of practice I have in mind. Besides," he added hastily to forestall questions about his future, "this isn't the kinda thing I do. I mean, they'll probably having finger bowls and ballroom dancing and guys wearing boutonnieres. And I don't even know what a boutonniere _is_."

"Maybe some salt." Hardcastle reached for the salt shaker and said over his shoulder, "it's a flower. You wear it in your buttonhole. You won't need one of those, though." He paused in his salt-shaking. "I don't think."

"See! That's just what I mean. I don't know how to deal with a formal tea at the British Consulate and _you_ don't, either. No way I'm going to this." McCormick flicked the embossed invitation with a finger. "But it was nice of them to ask anyway." Suddenly, he lurched back in his chair and hung a frosty glance at the guy cooking the soup. "Hey, wait a minute. How did they find out I'm an earl anyway. You told 'em, didn't you!" It was less a question than an outright accusation.

"Nope." Another taste and a smile appeared on the craggy face. "Just right. Another ten minutes and soup's on."

Mark groaned at the same old joke every time the judge made soup for dinner, but didn't let that distract him. "Didn't you? How else would they have found out?"

Hardcastle eased into his own chair at the table. "Probably through regular channels, is my guess. They must have lists of folks here who are 'somebody'", he made air quotes, "in England, and they can't take a chance on offending anybody who might make waves back in the homeland. I didn't say a word, cross my heart. I bet they routinely added your name to the list and told the consul and his staff to be sure to invite you to the next big shindig. And what better way to spend a Christmas Eve anyway? Lots of good food, interesting people, you get to wear your dress kilt -"

"Oh, no!" Mark held up a hand, then lowered it slightly to add, "Unless you wear yours, too."

"Me? I'm not going! This is your wingding, kiddo." The judge wiped a hand across his chin to hide a burgeoning smile, pleased that Mark had assumed he would attend, but held firm to his resolve. "There's no better way to impress a date, either, than to introduce her to the British Ambassador at a formal party."

"No. And that's final." Mark folded his arms across his chest and lowered his eyebrows. "If you're not going, then neither am I. No matter how wonderful you think it would be for my 'career'."

ooooo

"You sure the dress kilt is the thing to wear?" McCormick moved a pile of books from his wing chair at the corner of the desk in the den and plopped himself down. "At least we'll be cool if it's as hot as this next week."

Hardcastle finished opening his mail and turned to face the younger man. "Yep, I checked and that's what they'll be expecting you to wear. No, now listen -" he held up a palm to demand a pause in the McCormick yelps of protest, "I'm not British royalty, or Scottish, or anything else. But I will wear my tux, okay? That's what I _should_ wear and it would look phony if I wore a kilt when I wasn't entitled to it. That's the deal, no complaints now. I wouldn't even be that formal except we're supposed to meet the Ambassador himself at the consulate." The judge cocked his head. "Maybe we should get you a boutonniere."

Assorted murmurs of protest came from the direction of the wing chair. Then, a question that the judge had become familiar with over the last week. "So what's the protocol for introductions again?"

"Look, we've been over that. You know it as well as I do by know. What _I'm_ not sure about," Hardcastle frowned and rubbed a hand across his forehead, "is all that silverware."

Mark grinned at him. "I told you, that's easy. Maybe the easiest part. You just watch what everybody else does. Besides, you told me you heard it was a buffet and not a sit-down. Just take a little bit of something on a plate so you've got something to hold in your hand, then try to blend in."

The judge snorted, then laughed out loud. "That your plan at Judge Richards' retirement party?"

At McCormick's blank look, he expanded. "Where you ate all the hors d'oeuvres and had a cocktail in each hand? Arthur Farnell broke in during dinner?"

Mark laughed just a little sheepishly, then nodded. "The best defense is a good offense, right? When I'm . . . uncomfortable, nervous, I get mouthy. You know that."

"And hungry, apparently. But you got nothing to worry about. These guys are all used to making guests feel at home. They'll steer you to somebody with something in common, you make a little small talk, have a snack or two, and we'll leave." Hardcastle starting flipping through the pile of Christmas cards on his desk.

"Small talk, huh? Like the weather. Or baseball." McCormick nodded. "You said the ambassador was in the Navy, so we could always talk about _The Fury_." He looked studiously at the ceiling, while keeping the judge in the corner of his eye.

Hardcastle remained engrossed in the Christmas cards, but a corner of his mouth turned up by a fraction of a millimeter. Then he gave up and chuckled. "Okay, we're tied, one reminiscence each. Now get your studying done and I'll take the pork chops out of the freezer."

ooooo

McCormick parked the Coyote between a BMW and a Cadillac. The valet directing him had cast an envying glance at the car as he waved it toward an open spot in the Consulate lot. As Mark exited, careful not to show more knee than he could help, he noticed another kilted man standing in the doorway to the consulate, looking like another Coyote admirer. Mark thought he'd be easy to track down and chat with since the kilt was a distinctive white with criss-crossing red and green stripes – which made it completely appropriate for a Christmas party. Mark smoothed down his own MacLaine dress tartan, with its red squares predominating, and thought he'd fit pretty well with Christmas, too.

Hardcastle was waiting for him by the time he had his sporran adjusted and his sgian dhu back in his sock, and they strode across to the steps and up to the entrance. Mark handed over his admission card, they were ushered inside, and were met at once by a functionary who immediately introduced them to the British Consul as "The Right Honorable the Earl Mark McCormick of Blackthorne and His Honor Judge Milton Hardcastle". The Consul smiled and shook hands and passed them along to the Ambassador, Oliver Wright.

"Lord Mark,"said His Excellency. "A real pleasure to meet you. I had the great pleasure of visiting Blackthorne in my youth, and I never forgot the trout I managed to bring in on the shores of your beautiful Craggan Burn."

"Oh, if it's fishing, then you and the judge here ought to get together," replied McCormick hastily. He dragged Hardcastle up closer and said, "His Excellency, this is Judge Milton Hardcastle, and he caught a four-pounder in Craggan just a year ago."

"Pleased to meetcha," said Hardcastle bravely and stuck out a hand to shake.

Amabassador Wright shook firmly and smiled widely. "A four-pound trout? Now what bait did you use?"

Mark grinned, nodded at everyone in general, and headed for the doorway through which he could see a long table covered in poinsettias and ornately decorated platters of food. Waiters circulated with silver trays of champagne and a small string quarter played carols in the background. Mark was glad he'd been invited.

As he wandered about the room, he kept a eye out for the Christmas kilt. Anyone who appreciated the Coyote couldn't be all bad. And there he was, a small man, talking animatedly with another about . . . racing? Mark moved closer and distinctly heard the phrase "Formula One".

As he sidled yet nearer, the taller of the two in conversation noticed him and said in a rich burr, "But yon's another of our countrymen, Jackie. Have the twa of ye met?"

Jackie Stewart turned to McCormick, raised his eyebrows, and said in admiration, "That's a fine car I saw you driving. What might it be now?"

ooooo

The rest of the afternoon and early evening passed in a blur for McCormick, punctuated with clear memories of Hardcastle and the Ambassador entertaining a large crowd of the party-goers with tall tales of their fishing exploits. He and Jackie Stewart – " _Jackie Stewart_!" he kept thinking to himself – inspected the Coyote and swapped a few yarns themselves.

As Mark and the judge finally left, later than protocol had suggested, one of the aides de camp promised copies from the official shots taken by the staff photographer. McCormick was unsure of whether or not to tip the guy, but followed the judge's lead this time and just shook his hand instead.

Mark's kilt flapped gently in the early evening breeze off the ocean as he climbed into the Coyote.

"Ought to've opened the door that time, kiddo." Hardcastle settled himself and reached for his seat belt. He sighed contentedly, then added, "Has to be one of the very best Christmas parties I've ever been to. Thanks for bringing me along." He was so emotionally moved that he even slapped McCormick's right knee gently.

Mark grinned. "It turned out okay, didn't it? Well, a lot better than okay." He turned the key and the Coyote's muted growl filled the darkening air. "It was pretty damn special, is what it was."

"Yep. Special." The judge leaned his head back and grunted, whether in surprise or contentment, Mark couldn't tell. "You go someplace new and you find a friend. That's about as special as it gets, I suppose."

McCormick nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's one way of looking at it." He pulled out of the parking space and drove leisurely toward the entrance to the main road. "Or, you go someplace you've never been and there you are."

"What?" Hardcastle was unsure if he'd heard that last part correctly. "You go someplace and there you are?"

Mark looked both ways carefully, then pulled out onto Santa Monica Boulevard and headed for the PCH. "I mean . . . I guess, if you go into something and you know what and who you are – kind of _within yourself_ , I mean – then, you're okay wherever you go. 'Cause there you are, yourself, being yourself." He pulled to a slow stop at a red light. "Did that make any sense at all?"

The judge pondered for a few seconds, then shrugged. "Yeah, I think so. Mighty profound for Christmas Eve, 'specially from you."

"Nah." McCormick hit the gas and eased away toward the ocean. "Christmas Eve's just the right time for profound. But you have to be happy along with it."

Hardcastle grinned at that and settled deeper into his bucket seat. "Now you're definitely cooking. Profound but joyful's just the thing for Christmas Eve. So let's go home and be profoundly joyful."

"You got it, Kimo Sabe." Mark hit the button for the tape player and the carols started to play.

 _ **Merry Christmas, everybody!**_


End file.
